Typewriting
by Ollie Collander
Summary: Daryl can't understand the new addition to the camp for the life of him. Daryl/OC oneshot. Pre-Season 1.


Typewriting

**Hey, Ollie here. This is my first out of many planned OC-fic oneshots. It's a challenge I think I can tackle, writing as many OC oneshots for as many fandoms as possible. Seeing as how I don't have to devote so much time to each one, I can just crank them out one after the other. Anyways, my first one is for The Walking Dead TV-verse fandom, with the ever-popular Daryl/OC pairing. Let's get this started!**

**A note: this takes place pre-Season 1, when Rick's still comatose. Just to clear that up.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own The Walking Dead. The Walking Dead franchise belongs to Robert Kirkman. I only own the OC. **

* * *

She had been here for a week. A full week. Maybe a day over or a day less, but still. A week, and she didn't make any sense to Daryl Dixon whatsoever.

When the others after him and Merle had arrived at the quarry camp, it didn't take long for them to open up. The shy and the quiet soon became the friendly and the amiable. They helped each other out with chores and such, and there were a lot of smiles and manners and all that. They must have been really desperate to rebuild any semblance of a society back up again, and they sure did a pretty good job. Take away the apocalypse aspect, and the whole thing looked like some sort of summer vacation camping trip out of the city. It was still a bit unsettling to Daryl, who didn't have the "normal" upbringing the others had. He wasn't used to people, period, but happy normal people living in the end of the world was just creepy.

Then there were the others like him. The ones that everyone avoided. Him, Merle, and Ed Peletier were the ones that one living in the camp could list off of the top of their heads. Ask them why, and you'd find out that Daryl was clearly not a people-person, Merle was a loud-mouthed racist that everyone wished had died in the outbreak, and Ed was a cruel, lazy, chain-smoking abuser. Those three made up the Avoid-At-All-Costs list that the newbies were given. Daryl knew all about the figurative list, and it didn't really bother him. The more alone, the better.

And then she came along. She was the odd one out; she wasn't affable and social, yet she wasn't horrid and nasty. She was in the gray area, which Daryl hadn't known existed until her existence came into being.

It had been a crackly radio transmission that started the whole thing. Dale had been stationed, as usual, on top of the Winnebago. He had been standing upright under the sweltering Georgian sun with only his little funny fisherman's hat to shield his face from the heat. Alas, that didn't do shit, as proved by the sheen of sweat on his forehead. One would have to wonder if he ever thought about getting someone else to stand watch for something that wasn't coming, but he was never to complain about such a thing. He was too level-headed to do so.

Suddenly, off to his right, the CB radio had crackled to life, filling the once-idyllic air with white noise. At an instant, heads snapped up to face the radio in surprise. Daryl himself, who had just reentered the campgrounds from his hunting trip in the woods, had also heard the noise and had paused by the outskirts of the forest. Despite being the loner of the group, he couldn't help but be a little, just a _teensy bit_ curious whenever a new survivor was about to join their ranks. When they actually did, he would just grow disinterested and saunter off. Listening and hanging around for the first ten minutes was still an unspoken ritual of his, though, so he just listened on.

"-llo? Hello?" A voice called out. "Anybody there? Any…ear me?"

Dale instantly responded. "We're here, we're here! Can you hear us?"

There was a moment of silence before the static quieted, and the voice –a woman's- became louder and clearer. "Yeah, I hear you loud and clear. Where are you? How many of you guys are there?"

Dale paused to mentally count. "About 30, more or less."

The woman took that into consideration. "Oh. That's a lot. Though…if it's alright with you all, can we get to meet? I just ran out of food down here."

"Where are you?"

"That Shell station on the outskirts of the city. Aren't you guys up at that quarry?"

Dale widened his dark eyes. He looked down at those who were listening; they all seemed as apprehensive as the next. "How do you know?"

"I saw smoke the other night, on the top of the quarry. I also saw someone driving towards it a week ago, in a station wagon."

Daryl watched as Dale tried to recount the station wagon. Finally, he remembered that he had stripped it for parts, and went back to talking. "Alright, we-we'll send down one of our guys to pick you up."

"Alright, thanks so much. Really, you saved my life."

Dale nodded, forgetting that nods couldn't be transmitted through radios. Realizing that, he ended the transmission.

As usual, Daryl stalked off back into the woods as Dale and Shane had a word with each other pertaining to the woman. In the end, they sent Glenn to go retrieve her.

Glenn returned in the group's borrowed sedan a few hours later, with a young woman in the passenger's seat. He had gotten out and had carried a box; judging by the way he was carrying it, it was pretty heavy. The woman had gotten out of the car with a large backpack, and that was all of her things.

She had been accepted, more or less, into the group in no time. A temporary tent fashioned out of spare bedsheets from the Winnebago was given to her until Glenn could find a proper camping tent in the city. It took her less than ten seconds to get her stuff settled. Daryl noticed she kept the box inside the tent, along with her pack. She had never opened it.

That night, at the campfire dinner, Dale explained to the woman, whose name had been revealed to be Cal, that the night she had seen smoke, Ed had tossed too much firewood into the small campfire. From that, he had launched into a lecture about the general rules around the place. From his vantage point near the woods, Daryl could see Cal nodding frequently in time with Dale's explanations. Several people pitched in as well, like those sisters Amy and Andrea, and Lori and her son Carl. Daryl could tell that they were somewhat trying to get comfortable around the newcomer.

Over the course of that week, Cal had quickly adapted to the lifestyle of the campsite. She was given chores like everyone else; things that consisted of collecting firewood and washing dishes and washing clothes and such. Whenever she seemed to cross Daryl's line of sight, he always noticed that she never really held up a conversation with anyone. Once, she was washing clothes down at the lake with Andrea, Amy, and Lori. The former three had been conversing about something, and tried to get Cal to join in. She would say a couple of words and occasionally contribute, but other than that she just sat back and did her work.

This was starting to weird Daryl out. He couldn't decide is he was comfortable with having her around. No, that wasn't the correct term; he wasn't comfortable around anybody, except arguably Merle. No, he wasn't used to Cal yet. That was slightly more accurate.

Imagine his reaction when he found her following him into the woods another week later.

"What're you doin'?" Daryl gruffly asked, scanning her up and down.

"N-nothing." Cal called back as she stood on the outskirts of the forest, eying his crossbow slung over his back. "Um... are you hunting squirrels?"

Daryl shifted, clearly uncomfortable with her talking to him. "Yeah, so?" He answered. "What's it t'you?"

Cal shook her head: _I dunno._

Daryl stared at her. "…Well?"

"Huh?"

"What're you doin'?" He repeated, this time with a slightly threatening edge to his voice. He wasn't trying to be _too_ assertive, he just wanted to know why the hell she was talking to him of all people.

Cal blinked her dull green eyes. "Oh, uh…I'm supposed to be collecting firewood. For dinner tonight. Is that alright?" She asked, taking a tentative step forward.

Daryl visibly bristled at the step. "I dunno, why're you askin' me?"

"I was going to just follow you into the woods. Figured there'd be more wood deeper in the forest." Cal responded, her eyes searching Daryl's narrowed ones.

Daryl took a moment. "I don' care, jus' do whatever."

So Cal had followed him.

Even after their first true encounter, Daryl still couldn't find a good word to describe her with.

Maybe he was taking a step in the right direction towards figuring out how to describe her when he started noticing something.

At night, when everyone had finished eating and had huddled together by the subdued fires and talked, Daryl did what he usually did and strayed even farther away from the others. He tried finding Merle, but he discovered him in his dirty tent next to a book with a white powdery residue smeared over it.

Stepping away from the tent, he went to his own. He didn't find anything to really do there, so he left that again. Deciding upon a short walk to just walk, he saw Cal's tent out of the corner of his eye.

Hers was situated away from the others' tents as well, though close enough to still count as part of the campgrounds.

Glenn had finally gotten around to finding a spare camping tent in Atlanta when he went down with Amy, Jim, and T-Dog a couple days ago, so she was huddled in that. She seemed to be quite content with it, seeing as how she always ducked into it right after she finished eating. And like all the other nights, there was a flashlight on inside, illuminating her shadow. She seemed to be sitting down, hunched over something small. Her hands moved slowly, timed with the clicks that rang out into the cricket-infested air. He could only hear the noise if he was close enough, which he currently was (not that he would ever bother to acknowledge it).

However, when he took another step forward and heard his foot crunch against the dirt beneath him, Cal paused. The clicking stopped, and suddenly the light went out. There was a sudden rustling; to Daryl, it sounded like someone hurriedly rushing to get into a sleeping bag.

And so the cycle continued; Cal tried to make small talk with him while she completed her tasks in the woods, and then she huddled in her tent at night, doing whatever it was that made those clicking noises.

Daryl decided to find out whatever the hell it was that she was doing.

One night, Cal finished her plate of squirrel and canned Spam, bade the group goodnight, and walked off to her tent. She had been expecting a quiet journey, but Daryl quickly rushed up to her from his own tent.

"Hey, what th' hell are ya doin'?" He interrogated, clamping a hand on her forearm.

Jumping at his sudden presence and contact, Cal gulped. "N-nothing, I was ju-just going back to my tent," she stuttered, her eyes wide and her stomach rising and falling rapidly. "Is someth-thing wrong?"

Daryl squinted at the woman, searching for any tell-tale signs of deceit. So far, he found none. Just a woman who looked very surprised. "What th' hell're you doin' in that tent? That's makin' all that damn noise?" He demanded.

Cal blinked, calming herself. "Was I bothering you with that? Sorry, I'll try not to do it again." She murmured.

Daryl narrowed his eyes at her. He was still demanding an answer.

Cal opened her mouth to speak, then decided against it. She shook her head and turned on her heel. "C'mon," she gestured to Daryl. "I'll show you."

Suddenly, Daryl felt very apprehensive. What was she going to do? What was she going to show him? He had no choice but to follow her.

Cal crouched in the mouth of the tent, holding the flap open and encouraging Daryl to enter. He did so, as quietly as he could. He glanced back at her, as if she was at fault. She shot a look back that said, _Go on, look._

Daryl looked. The tent was fairly bare, with just a sleeping bag and a pile of clothes next to it. But there was also this large typewriter placed right next to the sleeping bag.

"Th' hell?" Daryl breathed, kneeling next to the blue contraption. The paint on it was a faded baby blue, and the keys –once pristinely white- were smudged from use. A piece of paper dangled from the paper table. It had words printed on them, each letter ink black in color.

"It's a typewriter," Cal piped up helpfully, watching Daryl stare at it.

Daryl glared at her. "I know what it is," he muttered, before turning back to the typewriter. "What I wanna know is…why d'you have one?"

Cal creased her brow, as if she didn't understand English at the moment. "What do you mean?"

"Are y'fuckin' dumb or somethin'?" Daryl growled. "What the hell're you doin' with it?"

Cal shrugged. "I'm typing with it."

"Yeah, but typin' what?"

"Why do you want to know?"

It wasn't a hostile question. It was earnest and curious. "'Cuz it's annoyin', that's why," was Daryl's answer.

Cal peeked her head out the tent, looking for anybody nearby. "I'm just…typing stories. That's all. Stories."

"Stories 'bout what?" Daryl was getting slightly intrigued. Slightly.

Cal pursed her lips in contemplation. "Just…stories, I guess. A lot of them are based on me and my friends and family, before all of this." She threw her arm out, gesturing to the ugly world they lived in. "It helps to keep me occupied. Keeps me distracted, that sorta thing."

Daryl was quiet. He stared down at the typewriter with a strange interest. He was never the literature-type, and ignored computers and all that electronic stuff. Found no interest in it. But this typewriter…it was strange. He couldn't describe it. Much like how he couldn't describe Cal.

* * *

A few days passed since Daryl and Cal's little visit, and it stayed in the back of Daryl's head since. Maybe it was because he never saw anyone here doing something like that, writing stories. He only ever saw Carl and Sophia doing "homework" with their mothers, but that was the closest. He was interested in it, for some reason. It was bugging the hell out of him. He decided to try and get to the bottom of it.

"Why d'you gotta typewriter in th' first place?" He had asked Cal one afternoon, when she had followed him into the woods to gather firewood like usual. "You seem like a computer person."

"I once did have a laptop," grunted Cal as she lifted a large branch into her hands. She pulled up on both ends and snapped it in two for easier carrying. "But it died out. There wasn't any electricity at my house, so I couldn't charge it. So I took my mom's old typewriter in the attic and used that."

Daryl furrowed his brow. "Why take it at all? Thing look's heavy," he wondered aloud.

"Like I said, I need a distraction. Something to keep me away from…out there." Cal paused to gaze out into the distance, as if she could see the whole damn world out there past the trees. "I guess I don't really care about the weight. As long as I have it."

Suddenly, a crossbow bolt whizzed past her line of sight, making her jump. She took a shocked step back out of instinct and snapped her head to the right. On the ground was a brown squirrel, lying face up with a bolt driven through its side.

Daryl trudged over to the squirrel and drew out the bolt. He tied the squirrel to his hunting belt, where seven other squirrels were tied by their bushy tails. Daryl looked at Cal as he wiped the tip of the bolt on his sleeveless shirt, noting that she was looking back. He then turned and walked deeper into the forest, listening to Cal's quick footsteps following him.

That night, Daryl had been cleaning his crossbow bolts when he heard the clicking again, coming from Cal's tent. The typewriter.

Before he knew it, he was up on his feet and approaching her tent. With each step, the clicking grew louder and louder. Now that he knew exactly what it was, he wanted to know what she was typing about. What story was she telling?

_No_, he told himself. Why was he doing this? She wouldn't tell him, of all people, about her personal business like that. He had no right to barge in there and ask, "What're you writin' about?" like that. This was stupid. He turned around and prepared to go back.

"Daryl?" The voice was soft, but loud enough for him to hear. Daryl stopped.

"That you?" Cal's voice whispered. "What're you doing?"

"Nothin'," Daryl murmured back, trying not to sound guilty or anything. "Jus' walkin'."

"Oh." There was a pause. "You're really close to my tent. Sorry, I was just…"

"Jus' what?"

"Just wondering. That's all. Sorry I stopped you."

Daryl didn't say anything. He prepared to turn around and walk away, feeling somewhat relieved that he didn't ask after all, when a sudden rustling caught his attention.

"Hey, Daryl?" Daryl turned around to see Cal's head poking out of the tent. He stared at her in response.

"Would you…" She hesitated. "Would you read this? Tell me if it's any good?"

Daryl blinked. "I'm not th' guy to go for that," he said. He was curious, though.

Cal shook her head. "I know, I know. I was just wondering if you would read it. It's fine if you don't want to, I was just asking."

Daryl was quiet. Thinking. He didn't know if he should go through with it. If it was constructive criticism she wanted, he definitely wouldn't be able to give her any. But if she just wanted him to just read it, then he supposed it wouldn't hurt. Finally, he nodded.

Cal widened her eyes, not expecting Daryl to agree to it. Hurriedly, she ducked back into her tent and came out a few seconds later with some papers.

Daryl took them, holding them as gently as his calloused hands would allow him to. He glanced at the first page, then over to Cal. He felt odd. It had been a while since he actually read a story. He tried to remember when he read something. All he could remember was the woods.

He began to read. Silently, of course. His eyes scanned over the words, illuminated by the lamplight that Cal had brought out. Every once in a while, he would look up at her, where she watched him read. Every time he looked up, she would fidget nervously, as if his glare scared her. He had figured that she had gotten over that, like everybody else, but whatever.

He read a tale of a man and a woman, who were married and well into old age. They lived in the countryside, in a small house next to a tall oak. They spent their days farming and reading and talking to each other about olden days, when they were young and restless. They were a gentle couple, and still madly in love.

But then tragedy struck. The wife began to grow sick, until she collapsed one day. A visit to the hospital revealed that she had lung cancer, and was caused by her frequent smoking habit. The husband was devastated, and lashed out at his bed-ridden wife. The wife, however, was understanding, and never spoke a mean word back. She apologized profusely, but always with a smile. She told him her deepest sorrows and regrets, and the husband listened with his hand on hers. Eventually, the day came, and the wife had closed her eyes and died, her hand still around her husband's.

Daryl finished the story without a single word. His breath was quiet, and his eyes were downcast. He looked up at Cal and held out the papers.

"That was my Aunt Jeannie and my Uncle Richard," she admitted, aligning the papers neatly and resting them on her lap. "Happened a few years ago."

Daryl only looked at Cal, and said nothing. He wasn't familiar with the whole concept of apology.

"They actually lived in New York. But they always wanted to move to the countryside and live in a little cottage sorta house, y'know? Something that you'd live in on the countryside in Ireland or something." Cal smiled at something that Daryl couldn't see. "They were saving up for it when she passed."

Daryl, once again, couldn't say sorry. He only nodded, keeping his gaze directed towards the ground.

Cal seemed to understand that this wasn't his area of expertise, this whole heart-to-heart styled thing. "Anyways, thanks for…y'know, reading it."

She watched Daryl look at her, stand up, then walk away. She guessed that was his way of saying, _you're welcome._

* * *

Of course, it happened again. It always happened, every night. Daryl would stop by Cal's tent and read a short story of hers. Through the stories, he would learn a lot about her family. Her older brother owned a clinic that he bought with his own money. Her great-great-grandmother came over from Ireland and opened a deli. Her mother and father met when both of their dates stood them up at the same restaurant. Daryl had to admit (to himself) that the stories were interesting. But he realized that none of the stories were about Cal herself.

Daryl set out one night to find answers. He went to Cal's tent, as usual. All he needed to do was walk in, simple as that. Cal knew that he would be the only one to do so, as the others always asked first. So, she wasn't surprised when he came crouching in as her fingers glided over the keys.

"I have one, right there," she nudged her head to some papers on her sleeping bag. "That one's about my nephew. "

Daryl was quiet at first. But then he asked, "What about you?"

Cal looked up with a bemused expression. "What do you mean? I've already read it, obviously."

"Not that. What about your story? Why don' y'have one?"

"A story?" Cal echoed. Her expression suddenly darkened, and she looked at her typewriter. "I don't have one."

Daryl pulled his head back in surprise. "Bullshit, ev'ryone's got a story," he retorted. "Even me."

"What is it, then?" Cal asked, suddenly gazing at him.

"Don' wanna talk 'bout it."

"Then why'd you bring it up?"

"'Cuz I have one. If I got one, you got one."

Cal prepared to answer, but she stopped. She opened her mouth again, but summoned no response. Something was troubling her, preventing her from speaking about it.

Daryl urged the matter. "What?"

Her moss-colored eyes darted to the side. "Like I said, I don't have a story."

Daryl paused. "What th' fuck're you talkin' about?" he asked, exasperated.

Her words came out as soon as he finished talking. "Because I'm not dead yet."

That had shut Daryl up.

Cal took this as a sign to continue. "Aunt Jeannie and Uncle Richard? Dead. Robbie? Dead. Gran Abigail? Dead." Absently, her hand rested on the typewriter at the mention of her grandmother. "All these stories are for them. All of the people I saw go. And I saw a lot of my family go. It happened during a family reunion."

Daryl watched as Cal ducked her head, her short dark brown hair tumbling down and forming a curtain in front of her face. A wave of discomfort washed over him as he waited for her to start crying. He wasn't the person that could handle watching someone cry in front of him. It was much too awkward.

But Cal never let out a single sob. Her shoulders didn't shake. She didn't sniffle. She was deathly quiet.

Daryl waited until Cal straightened up. Her eyes were blank, staring down at the typewriter. She was still as a statue, and silent as one as well. He could hear the crickets quite clearly now, and the crackling campfires too.

"All these stories," she finally said. "Are for them. There will never be one for me."

Daryl had left that night, feeling very…he didn't have a good word for what he felt, actually. It wasn't a good feeling, he knew that for sure. But it wasn't a bad one either.

* * *

The next day, Cal accompanied him out into the woods as usual. Collecting firewood again. When would she ever get another chore to do? Though, he had grown to not mind their little routine, so he didn't complain much. Well, he never complained vocally, but still.

Cal asked, "Why were you so curious about…y'know, my story?"

Daryl shrugged, keeping an eye out for any squirrels or birds. They tended to stay in the deeper parts of the forest, away from the camp full of humans. "'Cuz."

"'Cuz…?"

Daryl gave her an irritated look. "Just 'cuz, alright?" He snapped.

Cal nodded, but he didn't see. He was too focused on finding something to shoot.

"What's your story?" Cal asked. He noticed her footsteps had hurried towards him. He could feel her presence on his broad back, but she wasn't even touching him.

"Don't got one," he replied mockingly. "'M not dead yet."

Maybe Cal smiled, but Daryl didn't know. He hadn't turned around yet. For some reason, he liked to think that she did.

"Well, what is it so far?" Cal tried. "Up to now, I mean."

"Why d'you wanna know so much?" Daryl sighed, looking upwards towards the tree canopy for any birds. He saw none. "Can't keep your nose outta other people's business or somethin'?"

Cal halted slightly. "S-sorry," she stuttered. "I'm not trying to be nosy. Forget I said anything. Sorry."

Daryl said something like, "Stop sayin' sorry," under his breath, but Cal didn't ask for clarification. So the two ventured deeper into the woods.

Then Daryl started to realize that Cal was awfully quiet. She was still there, following him and gathering branches and such, but she wasn't saying a word. Whenever he looked back, she was always looking away.

Great. He must have scared her or something. He didn't do anything wrong, he was just telling her that she had no right to peek into his business like that. Well…now that he thought about it, that _was_ kind of harsh. Then again, he wasn't exactly Daryl Dixon, the Most Soft-Hearted Man in the World. What the hell was he supposed to do? Apologize?

Looking back at her, he realized that he didn't really find it comfortable when she wasn't speaking. He had grown used to her voice, despite the few words it formed in comparison to the others in the camp.

He stopped abruptly, hanging his head in some form of defeat. He was aggravated that this girl was making him do this.

"Sorry," Daryl mumbled under his breath, a rushed word.

Cal didn't hear. "Huh? What—"

"I said sorry, alright?" He barked. Instantly, Cal jumped and stared at him nervously. She took a small step back.

Daryl suddenly felt like taking that back. He meant it (sorta), but he knew he had said it a little too harshly. But that was just Daryl. He was just like that, he couldn't help it. Cal had to get that through her skull.

Cal inhaled deeply through her nostrils. "It's…it's alright," she finally said, bringing her gaze to her shoes. "I think that I, uh, got enough firewood. I'm gonna head back."

With that, she turned around, dead leaves and twigs crunching underfoot. Her head was still tilted downward, as if in shame. Daryl wondered why she was doing that, looking so guilty and all. He couldn't handle it. It was starting to really piss him off, how he couldn't understand Cal for the life of him.

So he did the first thing that came to his mind. He stomped forward, grabbed Cal's slender arm, and pulled her towards him. She barely had time to utter a note of bewilderment before his hand tangled in her hair and he pressed his lips to hers.

The birds had died. The wind fell silent. It was as if the world had completely shut off, leaving Daryl to hear only his heart pounding in his ears. He could feel Cal's dark strands of hair tumbling through his loosely curled fingers. Her lips were slightly open, and were soft. Her breath was almost still, but he could still feel it gently whispering against his skin.

At once, Daryl pulled away from the dazed girl. "I can' understand a single damn thing about you," he grumbled, staring her in the eye. His hand still remained in her hair, her head slightly tilted back.

Cal blinked repeatedly, her lips fumbling and disoriented from the sudden lack of contact. "Wh-I don't...know." She breathed, her ears and cheeks turning red. Daryl's own face turned a little hot as well.

"Who th' hell writes stories for fuckin' dead people? Who carries aroun' a typewriter with them in th' 'pocalypse? Who says 'sorry' all th' damn time, drivin' me up a wall?" Daryl snarled, leaning over Cal with each sentence. "What th' hell _are_ you?"

He read the beginning of another apology on Cal's lips when he dove down and kissed her again. He heard her suck in a sharp breath in shock and quickly separated himself from her once more. "Stop sayin' sorry!"

And for the third time, Daryl claimed Cal's lips, but this time he wasn't as rough. He was slower, and his hand began to scrunch up into a fist in Cal's hair.

Surprisingly, Cal began to kiss back. Her lips melded with his, opening just a little to let her tongue through. Daryl recoiled for s brief second, as he hadn't done this in a while, but he quickly adjusted. He tasted her tentatively, and then came the sound of clattering branches. Cal had dropped her load of firewood, enabling her hands to travel to the sides of his face.

She held on for dear life as Daryl set down his crossbow against a tree trunk and then swung her to the ground. Cal laid flat on the dirt, feeling leaves crackle under her but paying no mind to it. Daryl was hunched over her, one of his hands clutching her wrist and the other running up her waist, bringing her shirt hem with it. Their breaths mingled in gasps and low moans, particularly from Cal as she felt Daryl's hand crawl up her skin, leaving shivering trails.

Cal suddenly stopped and propped up on her elbows, watching Daryl's hand halt in response. Her shirt was halfway over her breasts, exposing her bra. She looked up at Daryl, who returned the look without a single word. They stared at each other, straight in the eye, before their lips met again.

* * *

Ever since that day in the woods, Daryl still didn't understand Cal too much. He didn't mind, though, seeing as how he got to see her at her tent or in the woods almost every day. He was getting closer to piecing together the pieces, he supposed.

* * *

**And there's my first one shot! I'm sorry if that little scene up there wasn't too good, I haven't written romantic scenes in quite a while. And I'm also sorry that this thing was SO FUCKING LONG. Please forgive me. But anyways, do tell me what you thought of it. I'd love feedback on this. Thanks for reading!**


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